by Ann Birch
“Bribery, Robert, bribery.” But she needed the money. The mails had been delayed again, and she had not received royalties from her British publishers. She swept the coins off the table and walked out of the room. At least there would be enough money now to pay for her father’s medical expenses.
FIFTEEN
I need a poem, Miss Siddons. A love poem for my wife. It’s Valentine’s Day tomorrow, you remember.”
I The governess sat behind a desk in the small library that led into the conservatory. “I’m not sure what you want from me, Mr. Jarvis.” Her long nose grew red, and a mottled flush suffused her cheeks. “Perhaps, if I have time when I finish teaching the girls, I could help you compose something, but surely you do not wish my assistance with such a personal—”
Sam laughed. “I have no intention of becoming a poet. I want you to lend me a book in which I might find something suitable, that’s all. I bought a lovely card—lace and red roses and pink hearts—from Rowsell’s store, and there’s a blank space inside into which I thought I might copy a poem.”
Miss Siddons’s nose returned to its normal sallow brown. She put aside the girls’ exercises which she had been marking. She got up from behind the desk, and after some consideration of the shelves on the far wall, picked out a book. “You may find something in this one.” It was a heavy black-covered tome entitled Best Loved Poems.
“Good heavens, Miss Siddons, you do not expect me to wade through that thing, do you?”
“Perhaps if I listed some of the best authors of love poetry, that might help?” Taking up the quill from the desk, she wrote the names of six or seven poets in her beautiful copperplate script. “You will find these writers in the index, and then it will be relatively simple to review their poems and find a suitable one.”
Sam took her list in hand and went upstairs to his bedchamber, where he poured some hot rum from the drink warmer, propped himself up on pillows, and stretched out with the book.
He had paid scant attention to literature at the school in Cornwall to where his father had sent him—at great expense, so he always boasted. Archdeacon Strachan had been merely the Reverend Mr. Strachan in those days, but his Cornwall school had seen the education of all Toronto’s present élite.
And I have paid for that education a hundred times over, Sam told himself, when I consider all the years of my life spent in wiping the slate clean of my father’s debts.
He leafed through the poems. There was not one he recognized.
The only love poem he knew was one his mother used to recite:
Love in my bosom like a bee
Doth suck his sweet:
Now with his wings he plays with me
Now with his feet.
That one certainly wouldn’t be in this book. Well then, how about one of Shakespeare’s sonnets? He turned the pages. Hmm. Too wordy, too difficult. The next poet on Miss Siddons’s list was John Donne. He’d never heard of the man, but he looked at the first poem.
I can love both fair and brown;
Her whom abundance melts, and her whom want betrays;
Her who loves loneness best, and her who masks and plays.
Incomprehensible.
He was just on the point of going downstairs to ask Miss Siddons’s advice again when he read the third name on her list. Leigh Hunt. He’d give this person’s poems a brief once-over. He flicked through the pages. Ah, the language seemed easier. There were two or three that might be possible, but then he found the perfect one. It was titled “Rondeau”, whatever that meant. Mary wouldn’t know either. He read the poem over again. Come to think of it, the first line would make an excellent title. Or maybe he could just call it “Kisses”. The lines were simple, there was a rollicking rhyme, and it was short enough to fit on the blank page of the valentine.
He went to his desk, took up his quill and copied it, taking care with his script, and making one or two minor changes to fit Mary’s tastes. Then he went downstairs to the breakfast room and tucked it in the space behind the coffee urn.
“Sam, my darling, darling Sam.” These were the first words Sam heard as he went down for breakfast on Valentine’s Day. Mary jumped from the chair she sat in and kissed him. “Oh, Sam, you wrote this especially for me, did you not? It is so beautiful, so beauti...” She burst into tears.
Well, who was he to destroy her illusion? He pulled her into his arms. They were in a tight embrace when the servant girl came in with some hot toast. Good timing. He was glad that Mary was pleased, but right now he was hungry.
So he tucked into his poached eggs and grilled kidneys, had three of Cook’s fresh rolls and Seville orange marmalade, and two cups of coffee.
While he ate, Mary nibbled on toast. Then she pushed the uneaten bits to one side of her plate and took up his poem again. He had almost come to think of it as his.
She read it aloud in her sweetest voice.
Mary kissed me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in.
Time, you thief! who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in.
Say I’m weary, say I’m sad;
Say that health and wealth have missed me:
Say I’m growing old, but add—
Mary kissed me!
“And I remember, my dear Mary, a strange coincidence. When I came in this morning, you jumped from your chair and kissed me—”
“And you imagined that, didn’t you, my darling husband? When you wrote the poem? Oh, I shall always, always keep it.”
“And now, dear,” Sam said, wiping the egg yolk from his lips with the linen napkin, “I do not have to rush to the office this morning.” He took her hand in his. “Shall we?”
Mary went upstairs. Sam waited a few minutes, then followed. The upper hallway was quiet. The boys were in school. One of the servants had taken little Charlie out to make snow angels. Sam had seen them from the breakfast room window. And in the library, Miss Siddons, bless her, would be keeping the four girls busy.
He went into his bedchamber and took the sheep-gut covering from the top drawer of his bureau. He had used it once before, but it was still in good condition. Tucking it into his vest pocket, he went down the hallway to Mary’s room.
At eight o’clock that evening, Sam descended the curved staircase in his new formal attire. He had ordered it from George Michie’s shop on King Street. Michie had made him a fine claw-hammer coat in black superfine, and his trousers had the new pleated hip fullness.
“Just what them toffs are wearing now,” the tailor assured him as he displayed the illustrations from a British fashion magazine. Fortunately, Sam could forget about the expense until the end of the month. In the meantime, he felt sure it would impress the guests at the St. Valentine’s dinner he and Mary were hosting. Especially Sir Francis Bond Head. And, yes, Mrs. Jameson, who had, according to Mary, said that “people at parties in Toronto dress elegantly in the styles of a decade ago.” She’d change her tune when she saw his rig.
“You look so handsome,” Mary told him as she took his hand at the bottom of the steps. She herself looked pretty in a new red two-piece dress. She made a small curtsy. “Do you like it?”
“I love it, Little Red. It shows off your ankles.”
There was no more opportunity for conversation. The footman, a corporal hired from the garrison for the evening, stood at the front door to await the arrival of the first guests. He had placed a chair nearby, ready for the ladies to sit on while they removed their boots.
Sam watched Mary from the doorway of the drawing room. She took a quick look around the room, straightened two of the paintings, plumped up a cushion or two, and opened the tea caddy to make sure there was plenty of tea for the ladies. “See, dear,” she said, turning to him, “I have put your valentine on the back of the pianoforte. I want it there with us this evening.”
By half past eight, everyone had assembled. The corporal passed sherry and whiskey. Colonel Fitzgibbon sat ramrod straight on the sofa, h
is wife beside him. She was a small, fragile old woman with blue eyes. Sam was amused to see that the Colonel’s right leg pressed against Mrs. Fitzgibbon’s left one. Obviously they still played out their wild romance of a generation earlier.
Facing them on another sofa were Attorney-General Jameson and Mrs. Jameson. They sat at opposite ends; a gap of three feet separated them. Sam thought Mrs. Jameson looked handsome in her gold satin dress. It was a colour that would have been disaster on his fair-haired Mary, but their guest’s luminescent white skin and red hair were perfect for the buttery tones of the dress.
The other three guests sat in chairs close to the pianoforte. Chief Justice John Beverley Robinson had been Sam’s chum at the Cornwall school, and he had a connection to Mary, too, having once been engaged to her sister Anne, who had died tragically at sea. Robinson’s wife, Emma, was a boring woman whose cares centred on her husband and children. “As they should,” Mary always said when he complained about her conversation. Still, Sam reflected, surely the woman could read a newspaper and find something to comment on besides the weather. “Terribly cold this year,” he heard her say to Sir Francis Bond Head.
Sir Francis’s wife had still not arrived from England, and Mary had worried about the unequal number at table. “We could always ask Eliza,” she said. “She and Emma Robinson are good friends.”
“Sorry, my dear,” he’d said, “your sister’s laudanum habit and her thumps upon the pianoforte are too much for me at times. Emma Robinson will be more than enough in the boring female department.”
He waited until everyone finished one drink—Jameson, two— then he pressed the ivory button on the side of the fireplace. The maid rushed in. “Tell Miss Siddons that we are ready for her and the girls.” Then, turning to his guests, he added, “Our governess has a special treat for Valentine’s Day.”
Miss Siddons entered the drawing room on cue, curtsied, and introduced the two young girls who accompanied her. Ellen, aged twelve, and Emily, ten, had their mother’s fair hair and blue eyes, and were dressed in matching white dimity dresses and stockings, though Ellen had a pink satin sash around her waist and Emily, a blue one.
“Ellen and Emily will recite one of Shakespeare’s finest love sonnets,” Miss Siddons said. The girls stepped into the middle of the room.
“‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?’” Ellen asked.
“‘Thou art more lovely and more temperate,’” Emily responded.
And on they went to the end, in a duet that Miss Siddons had obviously carefully planned and rehearsed with them. At the end, the adults clapped. Mrs. Jameson beamed. “Charming.” Then she said, “It’s one of my two favourites. The other is number one hundred and sixteen. But of course, you will not know that one by heart.”
“‘Let me not to the marriage of true minds, /Admit impediments.’ Can you do it for the lady?” Miss Siddons asked. Ellen and Emily nodded.
Sam had never been happier about the money spent on the girls’ education. To the best of his knowledge, he had not read or heard the sonnet before, but he sat back and enjoyed its lines now. It made the poem he had copied onto the card for Mary seem shallow and facile.
The girls’ clear treble voices were sweet and eloquent, and they split the last two lines between them in a way that showed Miss Siddons’s careful coaching.
“‘If this be error and upon me proved,’” Ellen said, pausing while Emily took it to its conclusion, “‘I never writ, nor no man ever loved.’”
Mrs. Jameson pulled a handkerchief from her reticule and wiped her eyes. “Even Fanny Kemble could not have done it better,” she said. “Miss Siddons, you have trained the girls so well.”
“I liked that line about love being a fixed mark that tempests cannot shake,” Mrs. Fitzgibbon said. She looked towards her husband, who squeezed her hand.
At that moment, little Charlie came into the drawing room, dinner gong in hand. Sam had given him the honours for that night, and he had practised whacking it most of the afternoon. His small face was flushed, and after he had half deafened them all, he asked, “Did I do that good, Papa?”
“Well done, indeed, Charlie. You have made us all long for dinner. And now, if you will go belowstairs with Miss Siddons and your sisters, Cook will give you all a Valentine treat.”
The invited guests moved to their places at Sam’s fine mahogany table, laid with his and Mary’s best Duesbury Derby china in green and gold, accented by white linen napkins and a centrepiece of red carnations from the conservatory.
“Fresh flowers,” Mrs. Jameson said, “I have been here for two months, and not one fresh flower have I seen. I have pined for a bouquet, but I have not thrown out enough hints to my husband, alas.” She smiled at Jameson, then leaned over the table and touched her fingers to the carnations. “They are exquisite.”
“I arranged them myself,” Mary said. “I too love fresh flowers.”
Cook had set out the bottles of wine in the new burled walnut cellarette and put slivers of ice in the tin lining. Jameson and Sir Francis hovered for a moment to look at the evening’s offerings, all of which Sam had selected himself from the vintner’s best hoard. They had cost a pretty penny, but he noted with satisfaction the Governor’s nod of approval.
“Your girls are well educated, Mr. Jarvis,” Mrs. Jameson said. “I applaud your enterprise in providing them with such a superior governess.”
“Excellent pea soup,” was Mrs. Robinson’s comment as she passed her bowl to Mary for an additional ladle-full. “Perhaps your cook could give my staff the recipe?”
There was a pause, punctuated by the sound of genteel slurping. Some more wine might liven things up, thought Sam. He motioned to the footman, who filled the glasses, then took the ham-and-egg pie from the rising cupboard and set it in front of Sam.
“Cook finds the rising cupboard so convenient, such a saviour of her poor arthritic knees,” Mary said, no doubt to impress the Robinsons who, she told Sam, had a very old-fashioned kitchen.
“What are the serving classes for, but to serve?” was the Chief Justice’s response.
“Excellent pie,” Mrs. Robinson said. “Perhaps your cook might also include the recipe with the one for pea soup?”
Sam stifled a yawn behind his napkin.
Mrs. Jameson spoke up. “The viands served here in your elegant dining room are indeed excellent, Mrs. Jarvis, but sometimes the best meals are those that come to us totally by chance in the most primitive of circumstances. Do you agree, Mr. Jarvis?”
My god, thought Sam, she saw me yawn and has come to my rescue. He smiled at her. “Indeed, Mrs. Jameson. The best fare I have had this twelvemonth was a campfire meal in the wilderness with my Chippewa friend, Jacob Snake. It was roast moose kidneys, a hard biscuit, and a tin cup of strong tea and sugar.”
“I remember Jacob Snake well. We had such fun that day on the lake with the snowsnake. Unfortunately, I have had no opportunity to practise since then.”
“That was the day the Governor and I had our race on the lake,” the Colonel said to the Robinsons, “and Mrs. Jameson shot out of my sleigh into the snowbank, just like a ball from a cannon and—”
Sir Francis leaned forward. “I must say that my best meal was taken in one of my gallops between Buenos Aires and the Andes. I stopped atop a mountain peak, and by the light of the moon dined royally on iguana roasted on a spit.”
“Iguana, sir?” Mrs. Robinson asked.
“A huge native lizard, my dear.” Robinson, like Sam, had heard the story before. “Very much like roast chicken, so the Governor says.”
The footman removed the first course and set a side of beef with roast potatoes in front of Sam. He took up his carving knife.
The guests let the Governor drone on, until during a lull, the Colonel turned to Mrs. Jameson. “Do tell us, ma’am, about your favourite meal.”
She told them about the overturned sleigh on her trip to Niagara Falls with her husband, and about the meal served up to them by the o
ld woman at the Beamsville Hotel. Looking down at her plate, she concluded, “Yes, Mrs. Jarvis, because I was frightened, tired and hungry, it was as good as the excellent fare in front of me tonight.”
Mary smiled. “I do understand, ma’am.”
The hired footman set the third course in front of them. “Well,” Mrs. Jameson said, as she leaned forward to look at it, “perhaps my old woman’s offerings would be eclipsed by these.” She pointed to the array of tarts: gooseberry, butter with raisins and nuts, and blackcurrant, accompanied by bowls of whipped cream within everyone’s reach.
“Mmm,” the guests said, almost in unison. Then from belowstairs came the heavy tread of someone climbing the steps to the dining room. In a moment, Cook entered, face flushed, snowy apron tied about her ample waist. On a huge Derby platter that she set down in the space near the red chrysanthemums was a jellied cream cut into the shape of a giant heart and sprinkled with red cinnamon candy.
Cook stepped back to admire her masterpiece. “Can’t entrust this to that newfangled rising cupboard.”
“Made with maple syrup from my own trees,” Sam said as the guests applauded.
Even Jameson smiled and said, “Well done, indeed.”
Later, over port, nuts and cigars, the Governor said to his male listeners, “You have all warned me of the danger of the reptile Mackenzie, and I know you will lend support in any action I may soon be forced to take.”
He hooked his thumbs inside the pockets of his waistcoat, let loose a puff from one of Sam’s fine Cuban cigars, and continued. “I must say of myself, however, that I am well fitted to assume charge of warring interests in Upper Canada, where both firmness and resolve are equally required.” He paused, looked around the table, awaiting the murmurs of approval from his toadies.